Far From Perfect: A Cinderella Story
by L's Muse
Summary: The story of a modern, 'far from perfect' Cinderella, an evil landlady and her beautiful daughter, and a shoe store.
1. Chapter 1

Far From Perfect: A Cinderella Story

The exterior window of the Glass Slipper Shoe Emporium was covered in running streams of clear water. The streams formed elaborate patterns, similar to those on the little shoe painted on the swinging sign outside. It was a cold night, rather windy, come to think of it. No one would come anywhere near the little store that night. Not that people came anywhere near it when the sky wasn't crying her heart out. There were only a few regulars that managed to keep the shop open, but other than that….

"Sales down since October! Want to guess the percentage?"

That was Oliver's voice. Oliver, the freckled, curly haired boy that Nora was blessed and cursed to work with.

"No thanks, Oliver," murmured Nora, closing her eyes to prevent her from visibly rolling them.

Nora was a pessimist. A glass-half-empty sort of person. She guessed she liked working in the Emporium, but she couldn't be completely sure. It was doubtful.

"Ten percent!" declared Oliver, a huge, beaming grin spreading across his pinkish face.

Nora glared at him and leaned heavily on the glossy counter. "You're happy about that?"

"Of course!" Oliver said proudly. "Last month we were down _fifteen_ percent!"

That was it. Nora couldn't take it. Her small reserve of 'Tolerance for Oliver's Infinite Ignorance' was spent. She felt a scream attempting to claw its way up her throat. She knew she was on the verge of tears.

Patience was not one of her virtues.

So she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on each inhale and exhale until she calmed.

"Nora?" Oliver whispered gently. "You okay?"  
>"It was five percent last month, Oliver," Nora muttered under her breath.<p>

"Oh…."

"Watch your numbers, dork," Nora groaned, lowering her voice to barely a whisper at 'dork'. She opened her eyes to scan the dimly lit shop with its flashing old light. She could hear a buzzing electrical sound from the storeroom, where most of the shoes were kept. From the small kitchen in the back, she heard the faint sound of a kettle.

Then there was a laugh. Oliver, ever the optimistic young male, was laughing at Nora's words as if they were a joke.

So she just glared up at him again, hoping it wouldn't encourage him to continue his loud, breathless laugh.

It encouraged him. So Nora went back to her thoughts.

She's thought a lot since…'the Accident'. Her thoughts and daydreams were her safe haven. The one place where she could get away and just…exist. Not feel pressure. She could be herself, just be Nora.

"Oliver!" Mrs. Hoffman called from the back. "Nora! Do you want some tea?"

At that, Oliver ceased his laughing and smiles. "Might as well," he said, shrugging. Nora nodded and wheeled herself to the kitchen door, which Oliver politely opened.

Inside, the scent of freshly baked bread filled the air. This was the best-lit room in the shop. On slow days (which were the bulk of the store's days now), Mrs. Hoffman would spend most of the business hours in the kitchen, baking and cooking. Mrs. Hoffman was like that.

She was a petite German woman in her early seventies. Her face, though, was barely wrinkled. She had high cheekbones and clear, blue eyes. Her jaw paralleled her cheeks and a long, thin nose sat above her thin lips that were always curled up in a beaming smile.

Especially now. In each of her hands was a plum-colored mug with white Celtic-looking patterns on the top. On the counter to her right sat two loaves of bread (probably banana, knowing Mrs. Hoffman) perfectly wrapped in bright green plastic.

Oliver took his mug with a grateful smile and Nora followed. They both thanked Mrs. Hoffman in turn and began sipping their smooth chamomile.

"Another slow day?" Mrs. Hoffman said in her soft, motherly way. She reached over to pick up her mug (filled with black tea and one sugar, thank you very much)/

Oliver opened his mouth to speak, but Nora cut him off.

"Mostly. Just Ms. Smith and Sherry Anderson."

"No Eliza?" Mrs. Hoffman questioned in a confused tone of voice.

Eliza…Elizabeth Finnegan to Nora. Maybe even 'Miss Finnegan' or simply 'miss'. She was one of the regulars. She came nearly every day to boss Nora and Oliver around the storeroom, looking for shoes small enough for her 'dainty' feet.

She was the daughter of Nora's landlady, which made her believe that she had authority over her. So during each of their meetings, Eliza found something to tell Nora to do. And after the Accident, Nora was, in effect, defenseless to Eliza's cruel treatment.

"Yeah, she was here around five," Oliver mumbles. He didn't care much for Eliza either, and hadn't since she'd started making fun of his hair and freckles.

Mrs. Hoffman glanced quietly at Nora before reminding them, "It's her money that keeps us open."

She was, sadly, correct. Mrs. Hoffman didn't like Eliza because of how she treated Nora and Oliver with no respect. She was loud too. Mrs. Hoffman always knew Eliza by the sound of high heels and her shrill voice.

"All right!" exclaimed Mrs. Hoffman suddenly, standing and collecting mugs. "We have been delaying closing time too long! It's already eight!"

Nora's eyes widened as she looked over at the old grandfather clack that had somehow managed to fit in the tiny kitchen. It was, indeed, eight o'clock. How had it gotten so late? Time sure does fly….

"Right!" agreed Oliver, helping Mrs. Hoffman with the mugs. "Nora, will you need any help getting to the bus stop?"

"Nah," Nora whispered, moving herself through the doorway and into the long hall. She quickly grabbed her back, jacked and umbrella and waited for Oliver to open the door far her, which luckily, did not take long.

"Mrs. Hoffman told me to give this to you, Nora," Oliver said as he closed the door. He handed Nora a loaf of Mrs. Hoffman's bread and opened his ridiculous neon orange umbrella to hold above their heads.

"You really don't have to help, Oliver," Nora mumbled. She didn't like being fussed over by people, and Oliver was one of those people that sometimes help too much.

"You sure?" Oliver said hesitantly. "Seriously, this is a busy city, and you never know who-"

"I'll be fine, Oliver, really," Nora interrupted. "Don't worry about me. Plus, the driver doesn't mind me at all. Even gives me a discount."

Oliver sighed. "Fine," he mumbles. "But I'm waiting at the stop with you."

"You sound like a kid!" Nora laughed, trying to distract him so he wouldn't worry so much. She glanced up at Oliver and saw him shrug.

"Call me when you get home, okay?" he whispered.

"Whatever…" Nora stopped, arriving at her destination. "So…how'd it go with Sherry today?"

Oliver blushed a little and Nora laughed.

"That bad, eh?" Nora said, trying to stop her smile form getting any bigger, but failing horribly.

"Five pairs of shoes today," Oliver shuddered. "She bought five pairs of shoes."

Nora gave up the fight against her face. "Wow, she's really trying to get your attention now, isn't she?"

"That's one hundred dollars!" Oliver exclaimed. "No…more than that. At least one hundred fifty!"

Nora shook her head and noticed lights nearing the stop. "There's the bus, Oliver," she muttered, trying to hide the disappointment and annoyance. Home-or, to be more correct, 'house' or 'apartment'- was not a place that she wanted to be now.

"All right," Oliver said quietly. The enclosed white bus came to a stop in front of them and the driver began to step out. "Have a good night."

"You too," Nora whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

Nora entered her ground floor apartment in a bad mood. She'd been talking to her landlady, Mrs. Finnegan, and was, for the second time that evening, on the verge of tears. She couldn't stop replaying the conversation over and over inside of her head.

"Nora?" Mrs. Finnegan had called from her 'office', attempting to cover her cold voice with a sweet masquerade. "Could I speak to you for a moment?"  
>Holding in a groan, Nora entered the small room decorated in dull brown and pastel blue. Mrs. Finnegan sat in her rolling chair, a small smile on her face.<p>

Andrea Finnegan, on the outside, was a lovely woman. Her square jaw was perfectly placed on the alabaster pedestal of her long neck. Her pale gray-green eyes, in their habitual temperate stare, sat burning coolly in the valley above her high cheekbones, on which there was a mixture of natural and applied blush. Reflecting her face in the middle would see no change in appearance. She appeared to be an angel, carved from fine marble.

But she was far from angelic. As an example….

"Did you clean Elizabeth's room, Nora?" Mrs. Finnegan asked in a patient voice, with a hint of authoritative demanding coating the edge.

Nora's breath hitched as she struggled to swallow. "I…I'm sorry?" she choked out. "What did you say?"

Anger, frustration and mocking pulled the sides of Mrs. Finnegan's smile higher. She sat back in her chair, shaking her head slowly. "Do I have to remind you to do everything?" she said rhetorically, her voice rising in intensity. "I ask you to do the simple task of entering my daughter's room and tidying it up a little. Nothing too difficult. You could do that easily. Don't tell me you can't even-"

"I was at work!" Nora interjected, perhaps too loud. The words had come suddenly, without much thought of their uselessness. She hated it when Mrs. Finnegan put her down. The fierce woman could get whatever she wanted from Nora by calling her weak. She took advantage of Nora, forcing her to do tasks, jobs lacking the ease and simplicity of picking up a few books in Elizabeth's room. She hated when Mrs. Finnegan put her down, and the anger emanating from that hatred fueled a useless four-word protest.

"Ah…" Mrs. Finnegan said, smiling and leaning forward to rest her face on her hands. "And how much do you make at that little shop, Nora?"

Nora felt her shoulders slump a bit. She knew where this was going to go from the many similar conversations that they'd had.

"Not enough to rent the apartment, Mrs. Finnegan," she sighed, bowing her head so she wouldn't have to meet the landlady's cold eyes. She could hear the bell laugh coming from Mrs. Finnegan's mouth as she shook her head slowly.

"Nora, Nora," she murmured, "the poor cripple that can't support herself in the best conditions possible."

At that, Nora's head snapped up. When people used her disability against her, she could feel hot anger flood her. They would laugh at her or mock her just because she was in a wheelchair and couldn't walk. It made people feel power as the person that can stand tall. It was that constant pushing, shoving and ordering about that made her so volatile. She could only hold to the idea of a future for support when she began to boil over.

But she had forgotten hope now.

"I'm not your slave!" Nora shouted, wishing she could stand up tall against the landlady's wide-eyed face. "This apartment building is rightfully mine, anyway. After my mother died, it should have been passed on to me, but you stepped in out of nowhere and took it! It's your fault I'm struggling to pay for something that should be an income to me. You have no right to this building. Further, you don't have the right to force me to do all of the work that's too dirty or difficult for you and your idiot of a daughter. And when I make a mistake or can't do something, don't shout at me and mock me by calling me 'cripple'. Because that's what I am, a poor girl in a wheelchair that's doing the best she can to stay alive and safe in a world that seems oblivious to people like her."

Nora felt the anger subside as she caught her breath. She wasn't angry anymore, just tired in an empty shell of her body. All she wanted to do was cry or sleep.

But Mrs. Finnegan was far from calm as she slammed her hands on the desk surface. "You ungrateful girl!" she shrieked, her face flushing to a deep scarlet. "Do you realize how compassionate I've been to you? Do you know how much I've done for you?"

Nona pressed her lips together to keep from screaming in frustration. Instead, she just forced the words "Other than reduce me to the status of slave?" through her teeth.

Mrs. Finnegan gripped the desk and shot up to her full height of five feet, nine inches (with two inch heels, of course). "Do you know why I bought this building?"  
>Nora felt her will to defy the landlady melt into fear as the woman stood over her. She froze and stared fearfully at her, anticipating an ironic lecture on respect and patience to follow the explanation.<p>

"When you're mother got killed in that wreck _you _caused," Mrs. Finnegan shouted, "I thought that if you were so irresponsible to not be able even to watch the road, you definitely wouldn't have been able to keep this building the way it was before. So I bought the building from that father of yours before he died and let you stay here for a reduced price. So don't tell me that _I _have no right to do something when you are the one that I'm trying to help!"

Then Mrs. Finnegan promptly sat back in her chair and said monotonously, "I expect the job to be done by tomorrow evening, or you will regret this conversation. Get out."

Nora quickly wheeled her chair out of the office, eager to get across the hall to her small apartment. She pulled the key out of her pocket, opened the door and pushed herself into the familiar-scented refuge of the one-bedroom residence. She was, for the second time that evening, on the verge of tears. She couldn't stop replaying the conversation over and over inside of her head. How could she have given in so easily to Mrs. Finnegan's angry words? She was just proving the landlady's speech to be to correct. She was weak. She gave in to everything without sufficiently defending herself. She had to stand against this abuse without the help of her legs. And she would. Soon.


End file.
